


You Know My Methods

by gandalfthesassy



Series: Whishaw!Holmes [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-24 09:06:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gandalfthesassy/pseuds/gandalfthesassy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Johanna Watson is an American army doctor and veteran. Overwhelmed by constant danger and recovering from time on the battlefront in Iraq, she moves to London in hopes of finding solace. But adventure catches up with her when she meets Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world, living on Baker Street in Westminster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Holmes and Watson

I searched the streets, under the shelter of my favorite navy umbrella, for my new residence. I had the street and house on the back of a business card that a friend of mine wrote for me. He told me there was an apparent sociopath who needed an example or companion of some sort. Not too put off by this idea, I’d asked this dear friend of mine for his address. His name was Sherlock Holmes.

An odd name, I thought to myself. I stopped in my tracks. 221 Baker Street; this was the place. I double-checked and saw that the apartment was 221B. I went up the few steps to the dark red door (which was a surprisingly lighter red than my hair color) and knocked the knocker four times. I ran a hand through my hair and breathed deeply. For some obscure reason, I was nervous as hell. What if he was some old fellow who didn’t need my help? What if he was a young, cocky bastard who thought he was all that? Or worse, what if this was a trap? 

No, no, I’d been watching too much Doctor Who, I scolded myself. 

A thin but nevertheless chipper old woman, in her mid-50s, came to the door. Her wispy blonde-with-grey-streaks hair was pulled back in a low bun. Her dull green eyes examined me for a moment before she smiled. “Can I help you, dear?” she asked me, her voice like what I’d imagined the Sugar Plum Fairy to sound like. 

“Ah, yes,” I cleared my throat. “Um, a friend of mine, Danny Woodsworth, said that there was a man living here who needed a companion, a Mister…Holmes?”

The woman blinked. “I know Danny, but I’m not sure if Sherlock will be needing assistance.”

“I assure you, I can be of any use around here, whatever he needs. I’m quite handy with a lot of things.” 

“Well, I’ll take you up to him and let you two figure it out,” she smiled politely, but I could tell she was wary of me. She stepped aside to let me in. 

After she took my umbrella, I asked her: “Who would you happen to be, ma’am?”

“I’m Mrs. Hudson, dear, I’m the landlady here. Sherlock seems to think I’m his housekeeper.” The woman led me up a flight of stairs. I looked around absent-mindedly at the ornate decorations; it was a nice flat. “If you’d like a cup of tea or you’re sick, just shout for me; not if he is, though, I leave him to fend for himself.” 

“He’s not polite, I assume.”

“Not polite? Holmes can be ghastly to people, love…erm, what’s your name?” 

“Dr. Johanna Watson. I’m trained in basically everything,” I shrugged. 

“I fear for your sanity, Doctor.”

“Joey, please. You’d only have to refer to me as Dr. Watson if you were my patient. If that’s ever the case, go ahead.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled. “I think you and Sherlock will get along just fine, dear.” We’d reached the upstairs bedroom. “He’s in there. You can go on in, but don’t hesitate to call if something should happen.”

“I can handle myself,” I patted her shoulder awkwardly, “but thank you just the same.” My hand fumbled with the doorknob for a minute before I realize the door was already open. Well, so much for being cool.

I slipped into the room soundlessly. On a large windowsill, surrounded by crumpled-up papers with intricate writings, sat a man. His dark brown hair poofed upward but insisted on curling downwards and hanging in sections, their ends brushing his forehead. His silhouette was nothing short of attractive; everything about him would instantly make any woman swoon. In his hand was a lit, half-smoked cigarette; the end produced a mesmerizing swirl of smoke that disappeared for a moment as he brought the object to his lips and inhaled. He moved his hand back to his knees and exhaled in a thin stream, smoke appearing like a warm breath in cold air. His clothes - a half-done red tie, a cream shirt, and tweed vest - were dirty, like he’d not washed them in several days, and from the aroma of the room, my assumption was entirely too correct. I resolved to buy a clothespin or a gas mask for myself. 

He didn’t turn a degree to the side before he spoke to me. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

I blinked rapidly and stepped further into the room, stumbling over a pile of books. One of the covers said On Her Majesty’s Secret Service by Ian Fleming. At least the man had taste. He was British, I could hear the accent…well, okay, everyone was British, obviously. I was an American in London. Why wasn’t I used to that yet? His was that sort of accent you’re not inclined to forget, I suppose. “Sorry?”

“You heard me. Your ears are impeccable,” he continued. He took another drag before continuing. “Your eyesight is excellent, that’s why you were in the American Army. I know you’ve been to war because I can hear that you have a slight limp in your left leg due to an accident in battle. How is it doing, by the way?” He turned his gray eyes to me. They pierced through me. My shoulders tensed. I felt like it was the first day on the field all over again, like I’d seen all the battles over again. But my conscious mind reminded me that I was here, I wasn’t there anymore. 

“Um…I’m going to physical therapy,” I said slowly, a little surprised. “It’s better.”

“Mm. Yes.” His eyes flickered over me for a few moments. “Hence why I asked, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Iraq,” I told him quickly, standing straight like I was being grilled all over again. 

“Training?” 

“I went to medical school after college, finished as soon as possible, and found a passion for helping soldiers. I never thought I’d be the one needing medical attention.” 

He swept his feet back to the floor beneath the sill. I could see that he had an ashtray right by the window. He put out his cigarette and turned to me. All of a sudden, I felt very uncomfortable. “May I sit down?” I queried, though it came out as more of a plea than I’d intended. He nodded and gestured to the ornate chairs and couch that were placed in strange alignments around a square coffee table. Thank God he didn’t have any form of mild OCD…not that I could see, at least. I sat in the rightmost of the two chairs. “I’m logically assuming that you’re Sherlock Holmes.” 

“You’re the first woman I’ve met who hasn’t used ‘the Great’ or ‘the Marvelous’ before my name,” he commented simply, jumping off the sill and going over to the couch. He draped his legs over one of the arms of the furniture and settled with his face pointed at the ceiling. “Go on, I’m listening.” He crossed his arms loosely across his middle. 

“What’s there to go on about?”

“Don’t be boring, tell me something.”

“I fear that anything I say will be boring anyway, Mister Holmes.”

“And why do you think that?”

“Well…the thing is…besides my time as an army doctor, I’ve not had much adventure at all. I’m sort of a Bilbo Baggins kind of woman. I prefer staying at home to travelling far distances away.”

“But you’re going out now because of boredom.”

“No,” I said quickly. He looked at me, surprised. “I was visiting a friend of mine, but then I decided that I was going to spend some time doing what I want, not what my family wants.” 

“So, ambition.” 

“You could say that.”

I swore that I could see the faintest of smiles pass over his lips. “Tell me more about being at war. It must be different than anything at all.” 

Somehow, I went on to tell him all the funny stories from when I’d been in the field, all the tragedies that happened to some dear friends of mine, and the things I loved about being away from modern society. He lay there, listening. Any regular human would be bored stiff about halfway in, but Sherlock Holmes was the first man to ever listen to me for as long as I rambled on about my life. 

There was a moment of tired silence before I apologized. “I’m sorry, I’ve never really told most of that to anyone.” 

“Don’t apologize. You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” He sat up. “What’s your name?”

“Dr. Johanna Watson, but I go by Joey.”

“Watson it is then.” He truly smiled as he stood up. I did as well. He came over to me and held out a hand. “You’re not boring at all, Dr. Watson.” 

“I’ll take that to heart, Mister Holmes,” I smirked and shook his hand. “So, this is your room?” 

“You met Mrs. Hudson.” 

“Yes, I did.”

“Her perfume has worn off on you.”

“Oh, this? No, no, it’s a fairly common scent.” I refrained from saying that he needed cologne himself. “If she’d rubbed it off on me by accident, it’d be a lot less strong than it likely is.”

Holmes looked at me a moment. One corner of his mouth jerked upward in slight embarrassment or whatever emotion Sherlock Holmes was feeling at that moment. “Yes, Watson, you’re correct.”

“Thank you,” I bowed my head slightly. 

“Don’t be too pleased. I’ve the mind of a genius.” He went past me into his little kitchen to grab something. I smiled to myself and followed him.


	2. The Relapse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Give me problems, give me work, give me the most confusing algorithm ever to grace the earth and I’ll fit right in. I abhor routine. I abhor existing." As Sherlock Holmes relapses on his narcotic addiction, Joey Watson proves why she's stayed with him for as long as she has.

“Watson!” 

I startled awake. I rubbed my eyes. Today was approximately five months, two weeks, four days, and a few hours since I’d moved into this godforsaken flat. Living with Sherlock Holmes was no easy task. 

“Watson!” I heard my name called again. I groaned and tumbled out of bed, putting on my slippers and blue wool robe. I walked upstairs to Holmes’ room, which was mostly spotless (thanks to me!), to discover him sprawled in the chair I’d not chosen as my own. His pupils were highly dilated. My first response was to go over to him and kneel beside his chair. “Watson, where are you? I’m falling.” I snapped alert. 

My breathing became shaky. My eyes fell to his arm, where I saw a needle wound. “Sherlock,” I gasped to myself and took his arm in my hands. I ran my fingers over the point. “Sherlock?” I repeated and looked back up at him. “What have you done?” 

“So many things,” his eyes closed and his head lolled back. I dropped his arm by his side and felt his pulse. It was extremely irregular. The only logical diagnosis I could give, indicated by the needle entry, was that he’d injected himself with some narcotic. Why the hell would he do that to himself?

“Sherlock…what did you take?” I said patiently, though I was angry with him for this. He told me it was just a phase, he’d moved on, why did it have to return now?! 

“I need a case,” he seethed. “I need a case, Watson. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most confusing algorithm ever to grace the earth and I’ll fit right in. I abhor routine. I abhor existing.” His breathing became heavier as his eyes drifted open again. He was still conscious, so there was no chance of an overdose. There was nothing for me to do but stay with him until the effects of the drug wore off. 

“And if you didn’t exist, you wouldn’t have the work,” I mentioned. I took his hand in mine and spread his fingers apart gently. They smelled of cigarette smoke. I’d gotten him on the patches, why had he started this up again?! Anger clouded my judgment, but compassion and loyalty cleared it again. “Sherlock…” I said quietly. Suddenly, I found tears dripping onto his hand, coming from my eyes. As hard as I tried to keep them back, they were relentless. Holmes didn’t notice. 

It took around an hour for Sherlock to return to full alertness; it was the longest hour of my life, and it’s always been so. His eyes made their way around the room before seeing that I had his hand. He followed my arm up to my face. “Watson,” he said curiously. “You’re here.”

“You called,” I shrugged as if it wasn’t a big deal. 

“I took too much,” he looked distant for a moment. 

“If you’d taken too much, you’d be in the hospital.”

“You know better than that with me, Watson,” he tilted his head slightly. I nodded and awkwardly let his hand go. “I need a case,” he groaned and laid his head back. 

“A good case is hard to come by,” I quoted him. 

“Great cases are even harder,” Holmes sighed as I went to sit in my chair, facing him. 

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” he brought his head up. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, I just wondered…how did you know about my limp and psychosomatic tendencies?” 

Holmes looked past me for a second before responding. “You know my methods, Watson.” 

“Well, I know some of them, but can’t you tell me a little bit about how you know so much?”

“Being open, I suppose,” he said after several minutes of silent thinking. He started to nod off.

“Alright,” I said quietly and went over to him, hoisting his arm over my shoulders to help him walk to his bed. “I’m not leaving you alone again until I know you’re not going to get into anything else.” He climbed into bed.

“I’m not a child, Watson,” he grumbled as I tucked him in.

“Not in age, but in demeanor, you are,” I smirked. He rolled his eyes at me and turned over to face the wall opposite me. “I’m sorry. That was mean.” I pulled up a leftover desk chair that Holmes hadn’t used in his time living at 221B Baker Street and sat in it. As his breathing became softer, I saw that he’d fallen asleep. Everything seemed to be perfectly normal for now, so I went down and made myself a cup of tea. 

When I came back up, Sherlock had turned toward the door. I’d never taken to watching sleeping patients before - first of all, Sherlock wasn’t really my patient, and second, I was usually busy - but he looked peaceful. I sat back in my chair and sipped my mug, feeling creepy but unable to leave in case something should happen. He stirred moments later. I sat up, expecting him to wake, but he murmured a name under his breath. “Joey,” he said. 

I swallowed hard and left my tea on his bedside table. I scooted the chair closer to the bed so I could run my hand over his forehead. His heart rate was going up slightly as he continued to stir. Maybe he was having a nightmare. I couldn’t tell. His hands clenched the bedsheets as his forehead began to bead with sweat. 

Alright, he was either having a nightmare or a wet dream. Either way, I was feeling extremely nervous. Suddenly, he woke up. He sat up quickly. “J-Joey,” he repeated my name, consciously this time. He’d never called me that before today. 

“Yes?”

He took several deep breaths, looking almost sad as his eyes pleaded with me. “Stay,” he requested. 

“Of course,” I smiled and patted his shoulder. He lay back down again. I gently ran my hand in a figure eight over Holmes’ back. As I continued, he relaxed, sighing at one point. “I’m not leaving you, Sherlock. I’m not that sort of person. You’re the only one who deserves my full attention.”

To my surprise, almost to my disappointment, I saw that he’d fallen asleep again. I didn’t mind. I climbed on top of the sheets and curled up next to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I don't ship them. What are you talking about?
> 
> This is set five months in the future. I skip around alot. Yes, it's confusing, and the character development is sure to make less sense. I'm gonna be posting my first full-length mystery involving them, though, in Conan Doyle's style with my own bits and ideas and all that. It's interesting, to say the least. Stay tuned. 
> 
> Not really sure about the ending on this one. But this was less fun and more helpful for me to write. Watson, to me, isn't just a friend to be had. The doctor is very much a caregiver, obviously because (s)he's a doctor, and doctors take care of people, so she takes it upon herself to help Holmes. Joey becomes more of an older sister to Sherlock, effectively replacing Mycroft (whom I am writing for now...yay, Mark Sheppard). So that's a thing. Then again, what would you do if you found your friend relapsing and tripping balls on your couch? 
> 
> Sherlock Holmes is not some kind of mindless addict who needs help. Yes, he needs help, but it doesn't completely take over his life. It becomes a problem not only because it bothers Joey, but it stops him from thinking properly to solve cases. I can see why someone as overly intelligent as Sherlock would need that escape, but that obviously doesn't excuse it. 
> 
> Again, inspired by the (now missing) link in the first part. 
> 
> Same disclaimers as last time. Too lazy to put them in now bc reasons.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first part of a two part story; the next part is set months later. I tend to jump around with mostly original works. 
> 
> Can you tell that I just really like Ben Whishaw and I don't care what you say because he's perfect in every damn way? If not, it's true. Also, no, this isn't a self insert. My hair's not dark red, it's dark blonde, and I'm clearly not a veteran of any sort of war. I'm not that shallow. 
> 
> Don't get me wrong, I love the Guy Ritchie movies and the BBC show. I wanted to create my own show, however, and include some of the canonical characters that hadn't appeared often in other adaptions, such as Inspector Baynes or Det. Ins. Gregson (there's this whole rivalry between Gregson and Lestrade and it's really awesome...anyways).
> 
> Where the hell did this idea come from? I saw a post in the Ben Whishaw tag of an edit of him from the BBC show "The Hour" (awesome show, by the way) holding a cigarette and thinking. Below it was the caption "My mind rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram, or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dispense then with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation." What's amazing is, Ben Whishaw would make an incredible Holmes. So I wrote it out and ended up really liking it. Unfortunately, the original post was deleted, so I can't link back to it. But I'm not crazy. I saw it. I remember who posted it too. It was brilliantly perfect. 
> 
> I've also dreamt up the rest of the cast. Most of you tumblr nerds won't be disappointed. Might post that later. 
> 
> The original Holmes and Watson were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and appear in stories by him. This is an adaption that tries to stick to canon as closely as possible while drawing inspiration from other adaptions of Doyle's works. 
> 
> This version involves a genderbent Dr. Watson as created by me and an appearance of Ben Whishaw as seen in the original post this is based on (which has unfortunately been removed but it was brilliant).


End file.
